


The wings of their terrible youth

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The X-Files
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Comfort Food, Crossover, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Russians gonna russ, influenced by Civil War trailers, now jossed by CA:CW, probably AU for XF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he craves Russian food. He's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The wings of their terrible youth

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when I listen to Hozier. A follow-up to ["The angel of small death and the codeine scene"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713256).

It was a bad idea. Then again, he'd had worse ideas. And it wasn't like they couldn't be in any restaurant, any diner, a McDonald's, even. A little hole-in-the-wall Russian place in Brooklyn was no more likely to be a hive of HYDRA agents than was a bank vault in Washington, D.C.

And he had a craving for pierogies and decent vodkas and pastries so rich, so sweet, they flooded his damaged brain with sugar bliss. The memories were flooding back every day, and lately he'd been remembering the years when he'd been... trained, let's say, conditioned, like a dog, but not treated like a killer puppet, not frozen and wiped, frozen and wiped, no life outside the mission. Enough years to read some Russian literature, pick up several regional accents, and develop a taste for Russian food that was apparently not going to go away. 

The last safehouse he'd busted had given him clean clothes, hot water and Ivory soap, and a fresh supply of cash. All of that meant Bucky could walk into the little Russian place, find a table way in the back, and order a big meal without attracting any undue attention. Long hair and a scruffy beard didn't draw much attention these days, whereas dirty clothes and a week-old stink still did.

He had just started on the sampler plate of desserts (and no, he wasn't sharing it with anybody, dammit, his body needed the calories as much as his brain needed the sugar) when the man in the black coat slid into the seat across from him.

"Leave the knives where they are, comrade, I'm not calling in the goons." The man spoke Russian with a blatantly American accent and smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. He raised his black-gloved hands, slowly, and slowly drew off the gloves, letting Bucky watch. His left hand was an artificial one.

"Go ahead, have your dessert. They make the best vatrushka on the East Coast here."

Bucky met the man's eyes--cool, cunning, green as leaves. "What do you want?" He deliberately spoke English. 

The man in the black coat leaned back in his chair, leaving both hands on the table. "To give you a tip," he answered, also in English. "There are some people looking for you. A lot of people, but a few that you might actually want to let find you. Heard about you from a friend of mine. A friend of mine who's a friend of yours... and a friend of hers who's a very *old* friend of yours, too."

He tossed a photo on the table between them, seemingly out of nowhere. It was a long-distance shot of two people: the blond man from the bridge, the helicarrier... the man from Bucky's earliest memories. And a diminutive woman beside him with fair skin and red hair.

Natalia. Bucky swallowed the name, and his memories, before they could get out and betray him. He had the feeling, though, that he hadn't repressed his reactions fast enough.

The other man smiled. "My friend the cute redhead is a very accomplished dancer. I helped to train her, and she told me you were one of her teachers, too. Her handsome friend there, the ex-soldier, is looking for a dance partner. Claims he used to have a friend who taught him how."

The man pushed the photo a little closer to Bucky, using his left hand. A clever prosthetic, much more realistic-looking than Bucky's monstrosity, but not nearly as powerful. Bucky figured he could probably slice off the prosthetic fingers almost as easily as the flesh ones.

"If you catch up with our mutual friend--Natalia--tell her Alex Krycek sent you." With another charming smile that didn't reach his eyes, the man in the black coat got up and left.

Bucky counted sixty heartbeats, waiting. Waiting for something. Whatever it was, it didn't come. He picked up the vatrushka from his plate and bit into it, chewed it slowly and attentively. Natalia. His little spider. His cunning vixen.

A man named Alex Krycek.

He selected another pastry, khvorost covered with powdered sugar, and held it for a moment, licking his lips. The blond man, the ex-soldier.

The end of the line.

I thought you were dead.

I thought you were smaller.

Pastries first. Bucky bit into the khvorost, scattering the white sugar everywhere. Then Natalia. Her friend Krycek. The blond man.

You've known me your whole life.

On the helicarrier. On the bridge. A speeding train. A prison camp with a bad room, the first of the bad rooms. A fire hydrant gushing on a hot day. A bakery selling khvorost, krushchiki. Sugar on a boy's upper lip. A thin blond boy who wheezed and coughed. A handkerchief offered, fluttering in the air between them. Steady, unyielding blue eyes.

Steve.

Bucky signalled the waiter. "Could I get these wrapped up to go?"


End file.
